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jeezlouiisee · 17 days ago

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I loved this sm

Blink Twice If You Need Help [Clark Kent]

SUMMARY: To some, your relationship with Superman could best be described as unique, but to you, it’s more like stay-away-from-me-and-mind-your-own-damn-business.

WARNINGS: enemies to lovers, fem!reader, canon-level violence, arguing/bickering, realizations & revelations, SMUT 18+ (oral f receiving, backshots lol, etc) WC: 12.7k - MASTERLIST - A/N: super sorry for the reupload i got the heebie jeebies

The body at your feet twitches once, then twice, before going still.

He’d been stronger than you expected—some sort of fire freak with a half-baked god complex and a plan to torch his house while the rest of his family slept inside: his wife, his children. Disgusting. Rolling your shoulder, you wince. Yeah, there will definitely be a bruise there tomorrow, but you’ve dealt with worse. You had gone a little easy on him at the start, let him kick you around a bit, burn the bottom of your mask off, and give a punch here and there. Probably filled him up with too much confidence before you struck, but hey, life isn’t always fair.

“That’s what I thought,” you mutter, resisting the urge to spit on his corpse. The air stinks of ash and scorched pavement. You step off the lawn and onto the sidewalk, already imagining the comfort of your bed. “Uggo.”

You're halfway down the block when:

“Hey!”

You freeze.

Well. That’s certainly one way to ruin your night.

A long, long, exhale slips from between your teeth and shut your eyes against the creeping flood of irritation. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you summon the voice from that online meditation webinar you half-watched last week. Breathe in. Breathe out. You try. You really do.

Your head tips back, neck stretching as you look up at the sky. The moon stares down at you, a silent witness to your misery. You don’t even believe in a higher power, but still, you beg for it to spare you from this colossal pain in the ass.

Of course.

Of course, he’s here.

“What do you think you're doing?!”

Annoyance buzzes through your veins, and you slowly—very slowly—turn around. “Oh, hey, Supes!” you chirp, voice high and bright and obviously dripping with sincerity. You even throw in a little mock-wave for good measure. “Wow, look at you! Dropping in unannounced. What a treat.”

“ I thought you were in… what was it? Valdoro? Valstresia? Somewhere conveniently far away from Metropolis?”

He lands hard a few feet away from you, the pavement under his boots cracking from the force. His gaze flicks over to the lump of flesh for a brief second before settling onto you. “You killed him.”

Cue the fake, wide-eyed gasp and hand over your heart. “Really?! Are you sure it was me?” You flash him a peace sign and pivot back toward the street. “Anyway, nice chat, but I’ve got places to be and a long night ahead, sooo—”

“Oh, no you don’t.”

Suddenly, he’s right in front of you, way too close, and blocking your path forward in an (unsuccessful) attempt at intimidation. Narrowed eyes paired with a nostril flare is a guaranteed combo when it comes to being in your presence. “You don’t get to walk away after that.”

“But you let me last time. Remember? That thing at the docks? Three dead traffickers and not a single thank-you card in sight.” You can see him physically hold back an eye roll.

“That’s because you—” He stops. Whatever moral high ground he was about to climb dies somewhere behind his clenched teeth. “Never mind. You can’t keep doing this. You don’t get to play god.”

Laughter bursts out of you. “Oh my god, you’re so right: you’re doing such a great job of that for me!”

You step to the side, aiming to brush past him, but unfortunately for you, Wannabe Tough Guy has different plans. Instead, his hand juts out from his side, wrapping around your throat, and the world yanks upwards faster than you can say kinky.

Wind nips at your ears as he lifts off—just a few feet, then slams you backward, spine-first, and hard, against the fence of some poor neighbour’s front lawn. Wood cracks behind your shoulders, and the impact makes you grunt as your fingers grab instinctively at his wrist.

His face is right there, inches from yours. “I don’t kill,” he seethes (did he just spit on you??), “because that is never the right thing to do.”

“Erm, what about—” his grip tightens, and you know better than to try to continue speaking. So a smile pulls at the corners of your mouth. Maybe he’s blown away by the sight of your beautiful lips, or maybe he's confused as to the reason you’re smiling in the first place, but he pulls back a mere centimetre, blinks and—

You’re gone.

Air rushes in to fill the space where your body used to be, his hand snapping closed on nothing. You reappear several feet away, crouched on the roof of a garage like a smug little gargoyle. One leg dangling, the other propped beneath you. “Damn, you’re a grabby one, aren’t you?” His head whips over to the source of the sound, jaw clenching as his eyes land on your figure. “If all you wanted to do was choke me, I’m sure we could’ve chosen a better time and place.”

You swear you can see a new vein pop out on his forehead, but you don’t care, so just as he’s opening his mouth, you lift two fingers in a lazy salute. “See you later, Supes!”

Blink.

And just like that, you’ve disappeared again.

—

“Ouch,” you yelp, as your hip hits the corner of your dinner table. Usually, that doesn’t happen, but what can you say, the urgent need to get as far away as possible from Superman must have hindered your stability.

Now, finally back at your apartment, your feet are killing you, and your eyelids are heavy from being awake for too long. You run to the washroom, stripping off your suit before you even enter, and jump into the shower. There's a vague plan in your head to find the time to clean your place up, but for now that’ll have to wait.

Once you’ve finished washing yourself, you put on some pyjamas and crawl into bed, turning the light off, and getting into a comfortable position. You feel yourself about to enter dreamland when your eyes shoot open.

Shit. Your mask.

Specifically, the currently singed and half-melted bundle of fabric lying on your floor thanks to a little firebug with crazy mommy-adjacent issues. Actually, the worst night ever, you think. You drag a hand down your face with a long groan, swing your legs over your bed, blink to the kitchen, and pull open the drawer where you keep your “tools”: a sad collection of scrap fabric, thick thread, and a heavy-duty needle. You really should invest in something more professional, but it’s not like you get a stipend for your line of work.

Then you blink into the hallway, pick up your mask from the ground, and walk back to the kitchen table to start the slow process of repairing what got ruined.

You were born like this. Blinked out of your mother’s womb right after the first push, and for a second, the doctors thought your mom just had a really big bowel movement (her words, not yours!). They say the delivery room went into full panic mode when you suddenly disappeared from the table and reappeared in the hallway, still covered in bodily substances and screaming.

When you were younger, it didn’t mean much. It was only something you used when it was convenient, like if the TV remote was too far away or if your friend was about to find you in a game of hide-and-seek. It had felt more like a trick back then. Like something small and silly and yours.

The first time it actually mattered, you were sixteen. Late afternoon, walking home from school with headphones in, when a scream cut through your music. The sight of a man lunging for a girl, covering her mouth with his hand and muttering obscene words into her ear while holding her a gunpoint awakened something in you, and without thinking, you blinked across the street, grabbing the gun from his hands.

His beady eyes drifted over to you, and a chill-inducing smile took over his face. In a panic, you shot him. You didn’t even realize you knew how to shoot a gun, but you did. And he died.

You blinked out of sight so fast the police never caught on, but the guilt of killing someone made you sick for weeks. You didn’t sleep. Barely ate. Couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror. But it was that, or let God-knows-what happen to that little girl. And later, only when she saw you again and thanked you, did you stop wishing you’d done it differently.

You've learned since then. Learned to move faster, smarter. Learned not to hesitate. You don’t always kill, but sometimes there isn’t any other option.

There was a time when you made the mistake of believing someone when they said they’d change for the better. Spared their life, only for them to hunt you down and stab you in the back. Literally. The scar is still there, above your left hip.

It’s jagged, long, and ugly.

It’s the reason you wear a suit now, the reason you hide your identity.

It’s a reminder stitched into your skin: mercy is a risk. One you don’t take anymore.

You thread the needle, slide it through the fabric of the mask, and frown. That’s what you don’t understand about that jackass. He thinks that justice always has a storybook ending. That the villain always comes around. Or that the world always rights itself if you just keep being good long enough.

You remember when you met him for the first time, too. Well—"met" is generous. He nearly broke three of your ribs before you could get a single word out.

Two years ago, an imbecile thought he could break into your favourite bakery and try to threaten the owner for money. You’d left him breathing as long as you could. Long enough to watch him reach for the second gun in his waistband, but the Kryptonian arrived three seconds too late to see that part.

What he saw was a dead man and a masked figure standing over him, blood on her knuckles and no badge to back her. You blinked before he could grab you, across the room, out of reach, but you didn’t realize he had superspeed. He never even asked what happened. Just started throwing punches and shouting something about being a good person. About accountability. Which was ironic, given how quickly he jumped to a conclusion.

It took two days for the bakery owner to speak out, and for the security footage to be leaked. The next time he saw you, he apologized immediately, and you had the gall to think that maybe you could get along, or even better, work together. But he shot you down, glowering down at you as he claimed he didn’t associate with ‘merciless fools’. So yeah, clearly things haven’t exactly warmed up between you.

Superman doesn’t like you. You’re not sure he ever will. It’s almost as if he has made it his mission to try to make you feel bad for doing what you do.

You think he hates that you get results. That your methods work. When you go after someone, they don’t crawl out of the rubble—or break out of prison—to try again the next week.

Pulling the thread out, you knot the end and clip it with your teeth.

—

Fuck.

Fucckkkkk.

You’re late.

You slap the light switch on as you barrel through your apartment, nearly tripping over your newly-fixed suit and the bucket of laundry you swore you’d put away two nights ago. Your shirt is halfway over your head, twisted like a noose around your neck, and your other hand is trying to shove burnt toast into your mouth.

Your hair’s a disaster, shoulders and back screaming from not only where Superman threw you into a fence last night, but that little fire idiot, too. The bruise is already blooming—deep and purple just beneath your collarbone. You catch a glimpse of it in the mirror and groan inwardly. It’s like everything bad that happens to you can somehow be traced back to Mr. Justice himself.

Soon, you’re out the door with your bag half-zipped and your phone buzzing with six unread texts from Perry. “Motherfucker,” you mutter, sprinting toward the metro station.

The Daily Planet isn’t too far of a commute, but the ancient elevator in the building must add at least 5 minutes to your overall travel time. You catch your reflection in the blurry steel doors of the machine, and wow. Not looking too good.

You swipe at your cheek and adjust your shirt just as the elevator chimes. The doors groan open, and oh—Clark is standing right there.

“Ah,” you say, like an idiot.

“Morning,” he says bashfully, already stepping aside so you can squeeze past. “I was just heading out—uh, Midtown. New report. You coming?”

“Yeah—well, eventually. I’ve gotta, um. Set up. Convince Perry not to fire me. That whole song and dance,” you manage to get out, flustered, and dying inside.

“Good luck,” he smiles. You make sure to give his arm a little pat (reassurance purposes, only. Definitely not to feel up his arms under his shirt), as you slip past him.

“Catch you later,” he says, before stepping into the now-empty elevator and closing the doors.

A lovesick sigh leaves your lips. You’re so doomed.

Over at your desk, Jimmy is already swivelling in his chair like he’s been waiting all morning for your arrival. He rolls over, his coffee sloshing dangerously in its cup.

“Dude.”

“Not now, Jimmy,” you say, shrugging off your bag.

The redhead ignores you completely. “You have to ask him out.”

Sputtering, “I’m sorry?”

“Clark. He’s literally head over heels for you. It’s kind of painful to witness.”

Are the sticky notes on your desk brighter all of a sudden? Or are you just staring at them intently to avoid blushing? “I don’t need you feeding into my delusion right now.”

“I’m not feeding into anything. I saw him smell the air after you left yesterday.”

….What?

“He thought no one was looking,” he adds, like that somehow makes it better. “But his eyes were closed and there was a small smile on his face and everything.”

“I—okay, that’s—”

“Very romantic,” he finishes. Fortunately, you’re spared the effort of coming up with a coherent response by a voice calling across the bullpen.

“He’s probably pouting right now without his partner-in-crime,” Lois says, not even looking up from her monitor. “Hurry up and get out there before he starts calling one of crying.”

You squint at her. “Not helpful.”

“I’m extremely helpful,” she replies, but you’ve already blocked out her voice, grabbing your notebook and heading over to Perry’s office. He doesn’t look up right away when you enter, still typing something furiously into his desktop keyboard, when he speaks.

“Well, well. Thought you might’ve quit on us.”

You offer a weak smile. “If only.”

He snorts, then jerks his chin at the chair in front of his desk, gesturing you to sit down, which you do. “Hostage situation,” he says unceremoniously. “Business tower in Midtown. The CEO lost his damn mind. Locked up a boardroom full of execs, apparently waving a gun around, demanding to speak to someone who doesn’t exist.”

“Superman already on site?” you ask, scribbling down notes, despite already knowing full well the answer.

“Probably,” the man in front of you grunts. “Radio chatter says he was spotted flying over a few minutes ago. You can try to get an interview, but don’t hold your breath.”

Like hell you’re willingly going to interview Superman. That would be some form of self-induced torture and you are not a masochist. “Nah. Clark can do that.”

“Nod a bad idea,” he says dryly. “He is oddly good at getting some quotes from the big guy.”

“Alright then,” you puff, “I’ll head over now."

—

You get off the metro three blocks south. Walk the rest.

When you arrive, the scene is already in motion—Cops are clustered around the front steps, radios crackling, tape sagging between barricades. People, other reporters, are packed in tight behind the line, pressed shoulder to shoulder with their phones raised. You scan the perimeter, but there’s no sign of Clark.

Then, a shadow looms over you, and your eyes flit up to see the back of Superman as he enters through one of the windows near the top of the building. While you aren’t able to understand the word, you can hear him shouting at someone inside. After a while, he exits the window and touches down near a group of officers. You edge closer.

“—said if anyone tries to breach, he’ll start shooting,” he says. One of the cops asks something low, and the caped man just shakes his head.

“They caught him skimming company money,” he mutters. “Not just bonuses. Personal charges, hotels, sex toys. Thousands of dollars in latex and—well, I’m sure you get the point. He knows it’s public now, and he’s humiliated.”

Oof. That’s unfortunate.

Despite feeling kind of bad for the guy, whatever shit he’s currently pulling is a gross overreaction. He’s not the first executive to get caught dealing with a midlife crisis the wrong way, and he won’t be the last. If he wanted to cry in the bathroom and get quietly fired like everyone else in corporate, fine. But taking a whole boardroom hostage over some receipts is… well, extreme.

And where the fuck, is Clark? You thought he’d be here by now. You figured maybe he was talking to the police or stuck behind a barricade with the rest of the press. But now—now you’re not so sure. Maybe he already went inside. Slipped past before the building got shut down. Maybe he’s trying to talk the guy down himself. Knowing him, that is a very plausible option.

Your stomach knots. If he’s in there…. Worry floods your body as you frantically rush up to the police tape, elbowing people out of the way.

“Please let me in,” you plead, holding your badge out. “I’m a reporter. Daily Planet. And my friend might be in there too.”

The cop glances at your ID and offers a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No can do, ma’am. It’s blocked off for a reason.”

“Can’t you check?” you press. “He might’ve—“

But he’s already speaking into his walkie-talkie, turning away and completely ignoring you.

You grind your teeth. Useless.

Is this really the state of Metropolis’ law enforcement? They aren’t doing shit. And if no one is going to do anything, then you guess you might have to. Slowly, you back away from the front of the group, walking around the street and behind a tall garbage bin, dropping to one knee and unzipping your bag. Your suit is folded neatly between your notebook and computer.

Yes, you bring your suit to work. No, you don’t care how insane that makes you look. This city doesn’t exactly give you time to run home and change. You learned that the hard way—last winter… You shudder at the memory.

After wrestling with the spandex, the suit is on, and you blink into the building, finding yourself in the lobby. Completely evacuated. You blink again—second floor, far side—and materialize in a narrow corridor lined with executive offices. The carpet muffles your boots. You hold your breath, waiting to see if you hear anything.

Nothing.

Again. This time, the third floor, west wing.

Still quiet.

Finally, after blinking around so many times you’ve lost count, you hear voices coming through the walls. One of them is trembling. The other keeps cutting in—sharper, erratic. You can’t hear every word, but you catch:

“—you lied—” “I didn’t s-sir. They’re public documents.” “Shut up. One more word and I’ll shoot up this entire—”

You hear that last line, and the hallway around disappears and is replaced by the interior of the boardroom, where every head jerks in your direction. The CEO reels back, eyes going wide, gun swinging in your direction.

He’s balding, red in the face, sweat-soaked through the pits of his button-down. His tie’s half off, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.

“How’d you get in here?!” he screeches.

You don’t react. “I’ll tell you if you put the gun down.”

“No! Don’t test me!” he yells, and points his gun toward the window, shooting at it three times. Glass explodes. Someone screams. One of the hostages ducks under the conference table. Before the last shard even hits the carpet, a blur of red and blue rushes up past the blown-out window.

Superman hovers just outside, wind in his cape. Then—

“What are you doing here?” he blurts when his eyes lock on you.

You don’t turn, still eyeing down the CEO. “What’s it look like, dimwit? I’m stopping this guy from killing people.”

There’s a pause. You can hear the irritation in his breath as he grits, “I was trying to de-escalate the situation.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, flatly. “He re-escalated it.”

The almost-bald man makes a wild noise, some combination of a groan and a sob, and turns the gun toward you. You don’t even have time to blink. Before the trigger clicks, arms close around you, and you’re all the way on the other side of the room. In Superman’s arms.

Practically throwing yourself out of his grasp, you land on the ground with an oof. Then, “you really gotta start asking for consent before you touch me with your grubby paws.”

The Kryptonian stares, mouth gaping at your reaction. “I just saved your life.”

That response warrants a middle finger, you decide, then blink back to where the CEO is, rearing your fist back and delivering a stern blow right across the face. Knuckles meet cheekbone with a satisfying crack. He yelps, folds like a lawn chair, hands scrambling to cradle his cheek as the gun skitters out of reach.

“Keep him distracted,” you snap at the gaping metahuman without looking. “I’m getting the hostages out.”

Your eyes scan the room, and you notice the fact that Clark is, in fact, not in here. Literally, where is this man? You’ll worry about that after. Quickly, you grab the two nearest people to you and blink them to the front of the building where the police are. Again, and again, and again, until the whole room is empty.

By the time you make your final appearance, the fat businessman is screaming something incoherent, sputting words of hatred and nonsense. On him—not beside, not in front— on him is Superman. He’s crushing the other below him, sitting with elbow on perched knee, head resting on his chin.

You glance between them, then gesture lazily toward the crumpled man on the floor. “So. What’re we doing with him?”

“We aren’t going to kill him, that’s for sure.”

The CEO whimpers. “Honestly, I’d rather be dead at this point—”

You both ignore him.

“Great idea,” you deadpan. “murder was not on the menu today anyway, I’ll have you know.”

“Well,” he starts, “I don’t plan on you taking him without causing him further pain.” He stands up, hauling the CEO, who sags in defeat, upright by his collar, then flies out the window. You follow, blinking back to the garbage bin, pulling your regular clothes on and rapidly fixing your appearance.

On your way back, you spot Clark standing back near the press huddle, and you march straight toward him. “Where were you?” you hiss. “I thought you were inside.”

He turns, startled, blinking behind his glasses.”I —what? No, I got stuck. My train was delayed.” He gestures vaguely behind him. “Then the cops wouldn’t let me past the barricade. I only just got here.”

You narrow your eyes at him. Then, after a brief staring contest, you let out a long exhale. “I was worried about you. Scared you had snuck in or something.”

Clark’s eyes soften, and then, without much warning, he pulls you into his chest, giving you a small hug. “Don’t worry about me,” he murmurs near your ear and—

You lift your brows slightly against his frame, registering the way his nose seems to dip almost imperceptibly against your hair. He pulls back a moment later, far too casual.

He did not. (He did). He definitely sniffed you.

Maybe Jimmy was right, after all. Does Clark like you? The thought makes you nervous, and you lean back, staring up at him. “We should head back to the office. Might as well get a head start on the article while it’s all still fresh.”

—

“Damn,” Jimmy exclaims when he sees the two of you walk in. “Did you see Blink today? She was insane. Like—bam, bam, bam—outta nowhere!”

You suppress the grin tugging at your lips, doing your best to play it cool as you walk toward your desk. But the truth is—yeah. You did look cool today. The news has already flooded the internet with a dozen grainy stills of you mid-blink, captured in blurry motion. There’s one particularly good shot where you’re helping a hostage while the police are standing around looking especially stupid. And the interviews? One witness described you as “insanely efficient.” You’ll absolutely take it.

“Yeah,” Clark says beside you, loosening his tie as he heads toward his desk. “It was pretty cool.”

“But also kind of impulsive,” he continues, unable to help himself. “I heard she punched the guy in the face while he still had the gun in his hands.”

Your smile drops. “Huh? It worked, no?”

“I dunno. Seemed like a reckless decision.” What is he talking about? He wasn’t there. He has no idea what the real situation was like. If you hadn’t laid one on him, then people could have died!

“Well, I think Superman needs to learn how to loosen up. Maybe try dealing with problems the real way for once.” That gets his attention. His head lifts slowly, and there’s something sharp and unmistakably offended in his eyes. For a fan, he sure does take things personally.

“Oh, really?”

“Okay, but,” Jimmy cuts in, “You have to admit it was pretty cool seeing them work together as a team. Who knew they were friends!”

Both you and Clark choke.

“Friends?” you cough.

“Team?” he echoes, like the word physically pained him.

You stare at Jimmy. Then at Clark. Then back at Jimmy.

Because—friends? Team? Bitch, you did all the work. You blinked into a hostage situation, took out the guy with your own two hands, and personally evacuated every single employee while Superman lounged on the CEO like he was a couch.

“I mean,” the young photojournalist adds, totally oblivious to the palpable tension growing in the room, “she got him disarmed, Superman backed her up, they split the work—come on, it was awesome! The people loved it. Like a buddy cop thing.”

“Right,” the words are slow as they leave your lips, which have morphed into a tight line. “Buddy cop.”

“It’s pretty much equivalent to what you and Clark are like, too, now that I think about it,” he ponders, deep in thought.

“Anyway, I gotta run, I forgot to take my lunch break earlier.” Then he’s gone, like he didn’t just deliver a blow to your brain.

Horror washes over you. Did he just compare Blink and Superman to you and Clark? Impossible. Two completely different dynamics. Clark is so sweet, so honest and pure, while Supes is the exact opposite. You bet that if you died, he would breathe a sigh of relief.

Nothing—and you’re serious—nothing could convince you to work with Superman.

—

You’re pacing in tight, erratic circles in the middle of an empty street, arms crossed so tight your elbows hurt. Your brain is still buffering, trying to catch up to the audacity of the words you’ve just heard.

“You want me to… what?!”

“Look, you weren’t exactly my first choice either, but no one in the Justice Gang nor I, can sneak into places the way you can.”

Oh, you are so going to kill him. “All you need to do is blink into an underground facility. I’ve pinged unusual alien tech, and can’t let it get used.”

You stop pacing and glare at him, squinting. “So what, you want me to just teleport into some dark alien cave full of who-the-hell-knows-what, get zapped by a cosmic laser or whatever, and hope I make it out alive?”

“I’ll be close by, but yes.”

A strangled noise leaves you as you throw your hands up into the air. “Fuck.”

There’s a pause. Superman says nothing.

You chew your lip. Pace another half-circle. You don’t owe him anything. But… “If I do this, will you finally get off my ass?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“I wouldn’t say I’m on your…ass,” he gets out eventually, with the awkward cadence of someone unfamiliar with swearing, which he is. “But sure.”

You scowl. You hate him.

Breathe in, breathe out. It takes every fibre of your being not to launch yourself at him just to make a point. You try to quiet the relentless chorus in your head yelling don’t do this!! You don’t know what you’re getting into!! This is a trap!! You don’t do Superman—

“This is a one-time thing, Supes.”

He nods. “Fine by me.”

And he takes off, lifting into the air and gesturing with two fingers, like keep up. You gawk at his retreating form in disbelief. This fucking guy.

“Hey!” you yell, cupping your hands around your mouth (this is so embarrassing). “Supes!”

He slows just enough to look over his shoulder at you, eyebrows raised. “I can’t blink into somewhere I’ve never seen, dumbass!” you shout. “I need a visual!”

His face flushes, and for once, he has a different expression on his face that isn't the usual glower. Hovering back over to you, “Get on.”

A moment of silence.

“Are you deaf? I said get–”

“I know what you said!,” You snap, exasperated. “I’m just trying to convince myself that I misheard it, is all.”

Why did you even agree to this? You want to punch your past self from a minute ago. And of course, he’s just floating there, his cape flowing even though there isn’t any wind. What you’d do to rip it off and strangle him with it. “I don’t do piggybacks,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

Reluctantly, you reach out and grip his arms. Damn, they’re broad. And solid. “God, what is this suit made out of? Reinforced stone?” The words are a grumble, as you try to find the least awkward way to climb onto a man who is literally four feet off the ground.

“Are you going to complain the whole time?” he asks, craning his neck back slightly to look at you. You snort, bracing your palms on his shoulders.

“Honestly? That wasn’t even a complaint. It was more of an observation.” Your legs swing around him. “I was alluding to the fact that you’re built as fuck.”

A bit more uncomfortable shifting around, and you’re finally settled in, arms circling his neck, legs locking tightly around his waist. It feels weirdly... secure. Not comfortable, because nothing about this situation is, but you don’t feel like you’re in any immediate danger. Then, he shoots up into the night sky.

Your stomach swoops with the sudden vertical motion, and you reflexively tighten your hold around his neck. One of his hands drops for a second to steady you by your thigh. Oh.

Below you, the city melts away. Skyscrapers give way to overpasses and industrial warehouses. Roads spiderweb and narrow, then vanish altogether. It’s kind of beautiful. The wind whips all around you, whistling in your ears and clouds touch the tip of your head. You unwrap one of your arms from his neck and lift it, your fingers slicing through the haze.

It makes you laugh.

Not even on purpose, either. It just bubbles out of you, light and startled and real. Superman tilts his head slightly to look at you. “Didn’t think you’d be enjoying this as much as you are,” he says, his voice raised just enough to carry back over the rushing wind.

You hum, still grinning, your cheek brushing lightly against his shoulder. “The view’s beautiful,” you admit. “And I feel… free. I hate to admit this but I’m almost jealous of you.”

There’s a pause, followed by a quiet chuckle.

Did he… did he just laugh? At something you said?

It wasn’t even sarcastic. It was almost warm sounding. You edge forward a bit, stealing a the side of his face. Lo and behold, the corners of his mouth are twitched up into a smile. An actual smile. It’s honest. And—

Nope.

You shut the door on that thought so fast it might as well slam in your head.

Think Clark thoughts. Think glasses and coffee, and ties. Out of nowhere, Superman dips.

“Ah—!” you yelp, gripping his shoulder so hard your nails are probably leaving marks through his suit, and he laughs again. Leaning down to his ear, “You did that on purpose!”

“Maybe,” he calls back, grinning now, actually grinning like this is fun. And it kind of is.

You're still recovering—trying to act unbothered but probably clinging a little too tightly—when he finally slows, levelling out again as the world comes into sharper focus. The glow of the city has faded behind you, and what’s ahead now is darker, flatter. No buildings, no people. Just a wide stretch of dense woods and brush, carved through with an old road that leads to… nothing.

He hovers above a clearing. “There,” he says, nodding toward the line of trees. “Through there is the access point.”

“Where?” Squinting your eyes and leaning forward isn’t getting you anywhere.

“There.” He points again. Same spot. Same nothing. You glance sideways at him. He’s probably using his X-Ray vision, you surmise.

“So I just… blink into some random hole in the ground?”

“You’ll have to try to visualize it,” he responds. “Think… underground. Caves, maybe. Something old. Damp. Stone walls.” Ah, so you need to think of a dungeon. This shouldn’t be too bad. In and out. When you get down there, you’ll report what you see back to him. Wait a second.

“How are we going to communicate?” If you don’t have telepathy, then it would be impossible to talk to him in real-time.

“I’ll be tracking you,” he says, adjusting his position slightly in the air. “I can see through most of the ground. If anything happens, I’ll come for you.”

With a roll of your shoulders, and a crack of your neck, your grip on the man loosens, and you let go. “See you soon.”

Blink.

—

You land with a soft thump, boots hitting something hard and so unnaturally smooth, you almost slip right on your ass, and your eyes snap open. Immediately, you have to squint against the assault of sterile, clinical light. Fluorescent panels line the ceiling in perfect symmetry, humming faintly above you.

It’s definitely not the wet dungeon you were envisioning.

The walls are tiled in what looks like seamless ceramic, with occasional chrome panels embedded at shoulder height—sensors? Cameras? You're not sure. Everything smells faintly of disinfectant as well. Sort of like that one science lab from high school.

Each step forward is careful, and you keep close to the wall as you inch farther and farther through the hallway. As you slip around a corner, you pause. In front of you lies a heavy metal door. Pretty important looking, you think. There’s no handle, only an ID scanner to the right.

Are you really about to do this? What if it was all a set-up? Maybe Supes really does hate you that much, and this was his grand plan to finally get rid of you once and for all. With one more breath, your eyes rake over your surroundings, and then you blink again.

What you’re met with takes the breath right out of your lungs. Rows and rows of sealed containers, stretchers, lockboxes. Shelves lined with glowing canisters and devices you don’t recognize. You walk slowly through it, taking it all in. Your fingertips trail close to some kind of armoured gauntlet suspended in a gel-like field. To your left, a preserved alien body floats in a tank, and the sight makes your stomach turn.

What the fuck?

So Superman was right. They are hoarding alien tech. But now what? How is he going to put a stop to this? You're lost in your thoughts when something catches your eye, and your heart drops upon the realization of what it is. In a crate, no bigger than a carry-on suitcase, sits a cluster of jagged green shards. Kryptonite. And it’s half covered by some packing foam like a school fair project. Your palms begin to sweat, like big time. If something goes sideways, and Superman comes down here, it’s over. “Shit,” you curse under your breath.

You take a step back, about to blink the hell out, when your shoulder bumps into something. A jar of slimy, neon-pink goo. It tips, teeters, and falls, shattering at your feet. Overhead, the lights flicker once. Then a dull, mechanical thunk reverberates through the walls. Suddenly, all the lights in the room turn red, and the sound of a siren starts echoing off the walls.

“Nonononono,” you panic. You brace, visualizing the hallway outside, but you don’t blink. Or more like, you can’t blink. Your heart rate spikes up and your breathing starts to resemble hyperventilating more. A sick feeling makes its home in the pits of your stomach, the urge to vomit hitting you.

You’re so screwed. You need to figure out an exit strategy before Superman realizes something is wrong and comes for you (one of the small voices in the back of your head is screaming: that’s not a bad idea!!! but you squash that thought). Think. Think. Think

There’s an unlimited supply of weapons here; there must be something you can—

The door slams open, and somehow, yet another bald guy is who you’re up against. He smirks when he sees you. “Well, well, well,” he says, spreading his arms in mock welcome. “Didn’t expect to catch a little stray tonight.”

You glower at him.

He continues, “You’re lucky, you know. Most don’t make it this far. But I’m curious—how does it feel, knowing your powers are useless the moment they matter most?”

“What the hell did you do?” You growl.

He stops in front of one of the specimen tanks—a preserved alien organ suspended in viscous green liquid—and smiles faintly at his own reflection. “This chamber,” he begins, tone lilting with theatricality, “is engineered to neutralize enhanced bioelectric signatures.” He turns his head slightly, gaze slicing back to you. “Metahuman nervous systems, energy fluctuations, the whole shebang, as they say.”

“Wide vocabulary you got there.” The sarcasm in your voice makes his nostrils flare. Menacingly, he starts walking forward, forcing you to backpedal further and further into the room. With every foot of ground he gains, his smile (if you could even call it that) grows.

“Which one should I choose for you, hm?” he muses aloud, admiring his collection. “Something poetic, perhaps. The restraint collar from Kahndaq? One of the Null Pods from Sector 68? Oh—maybe the Tamarin siphon ring. Cruel, but effective.”

Something between a snarl and a bark rips from your throat. “Get away from me!”

But it does nothing. The man only cackles evilly as his approach narrows. “Or what?,” He taunts, his voice syrupy with derision. “What are you gonna do?”

He speaks to you like you’re a dog. A rabid thing that’s already leashed and muzzled.

“I wonder,” his gaze drags over your face, lingering at the line of your jaw. “What kind of beauty is hiding under that mask?”

Your breathing gets heavy again, speeding up faster and faster as his bony fingers reach up and tug off the only things protecting your identity. You flinch as the cool air hits your skin and bare your teeth. “You’re a psycho.”

The mask falls from his fingers onto the floor. “Maybe I am. But at least I’m not weak.”

You don’t have time to react. In one heaving motion, he throws you across the room like you weigh nothing. Your body slams into a rack of weaponry, metal and glass crashing down around you in a deafening cacophony. Sharp edges bite through the suit at your back. Something heavy thuds beside your ribs.

There’s no time to breathe before he’s on you again.

A vicious kick pounds into your stomach, and your body spazzes with a sputtering gasp. Your fingers scrabble at the smooth tile, trying to brace for the next blow. “You creatures are the reason this planet is weak,” he spits above you. Another kick. You wheeze, coughing, tasting metal.

“No one learns to fight for themselves anymore.”

Another.

You try to crawl, eyes swimming, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t know anything—”

Another.

“You’re parasites. Symbols of dependency. You make them soft,” he hisses. “And it disgusts me.”

Fucking hell, just doesn’t stop, does he?

Blood builds up in your throat, and you don’t have the strength to swallow it, so you spit it out. It lands on his shoe. A thick, dark smear along the polished leather. The bald devil stares down at it, and then, with a grunt, he wrenches you up off the floor. His fist is twisting the front of your suit so tightly, his knuckles are white.

“Filthy little—”

But the insult doesn’t finish. Because something explodes in the hallway.

Two red boots plant themselves at the doorway, and fuck, the personification of power has arrived. There he is, standing strong, with his arms crossed over his chest. When he sees the other man in the room, he rolls his shoulders back. “Lex. I should have known.”

His gaze sweeps from Baldy—Lex—to you. Your face. Your maskless face,

And his expression shatters.

It’s anguish, like something has broken open in him, raw and violent. Yet, just as quickly as it came, the grief gives way to rage. His whole body tightens, and in a roar of movement, he lunges.

You scream. “No—wait! There’s—”

Within five steps into the room, you see it hit him. His momentum falters. His spine stiffens. A shudder travels down his limbs, and he drops. First to one knee, then the other, crumpling with a muffled cry as the Kryptonite takes hold.

At this point, you’re thrashing around in Lex’s grip, limbs flailing, but he just smirks. “Aww, boohoo. He came for you, didn’t he? And now look.” His hand opens, and you fall back down to the ground. “This is just too easy.” He licks his lips like a predator smelling blood. “You know what? I’m hungry.”

He turns on his heel, stomping towards the entrance, and leaving you in his wake. “I’m gonna eat. See you later!”

The heavy door slams shut behind him with a reverberating boom. Left in the suffocating silence, you grit your teeth and force yourself up, your muscles screaming in protest. Crawling forward on bruised hands and knees, you make your way toward the fallen hero, whose skin is already paling, veins darkening to that sickly green.

Your voice is shaky, “Supes,” you place a trembling hand on his chest as you give him a nudge. “Get your ass up, we have to find a way out of here.”

His eyes flutter open, struggling to focus. When they meet yours, you're met with the same pain you saw earlier, when he first saw your face. Between ragged breaths, he mumbles, voice cracked and strained, “Of course… it’s you.”

“Shhh, don’t speak,” you whisper urgently. “Save your energy.”

Carefully, you slide your hands under his arms, trying to maneuver him into a sitting position. His weight is nearly dead, and because of his sheer size, moving him is almost out of the equation entirely. You need to think fast. You try to roll him over again, but you notice there’s tension in his cape, holding him back. Tracing your eyes along the red fabric, you find the source and realize it’s because the door has been shut on it. A sudden, sharp idea hits you: if you can wedge the door open and slip out of the room, then you can blink the two of you out of this nightmare. That’s it!

However, you won’t be able to carry out this plan alone. The thought of making Superman do anything in this state (surprisingly) pains you, but you know it’s the only way you’ll succeed. “Hey,” you say, pulling his attention from his agonizing torture to you, “I know you’re weak, I know you’re tired, but I have a plan.”

He groans and grimaces, as if already anticipating your next words. “You need to use everything you’ve got—every bit of strength—and crawl away from this door. As hard as you can.”

You help him move onto his hands and knees. His muscles tremble beneath your touch, and for a second, you’re filled with fear that it won’t work, but just this once, you decide to trust him. You move beside the door. “Okay. Now.”

Grunts begin to fill the thick, stale air. His pallid hands dig and scrape at the floor, fingers splaying out wide as he tries to get leverage. It’s taking every last drop of strength he can muster just to push forward, even just an inch. You watch, heart pounding, as his cape, trapped and taut, starts to inch forward bit by bit. Every second feels like a minute, but then, a shudder in the red fabric, and the door creaks open, a small, narrow gap appearing.

Seizing the moment, your fingers dive into the tiny crack now visible between the door and the frame. The cold metal bites into your skin as you wedge your nails inside and pull. At first, the door protests, heavy and reluctant, but it moves. Achingly, painfully slow, the seam splits wider as you throw your weight into it. Your fingers slip, then catch again. You can feel the tendons in your arms screaming, your ribs straining, until finally, finally, the gap is wide enough to breathe. Wide enough to escape.

You stumble through it first, chest heaving, blinking hard against the lights outside the containment room. Turning around, you snatch a fistful of Superman’s cape, dragging him out of the room behind you with all of your remaining strength. One foot is braced against the doorframe for support while you yank with everything you’ve got, your teeth clenched so tight your jaw throbs. “Come on, big guy,” you grunt. “You’re not dying in a fucking science exhibit.”

Then at last, his body crosses the threshold. The fabric slips through your fingers in a whisper of red as you collapse backward, landing in a boneless sprawl beside him. Limbs splayed, chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic bursts. You spread yourself out like a pancake on the tile, and whisper the first thought that comes to mind:

“Holy shit.”

Rolling over after a few more moments, you grab the man's hand and blink the two of you out of there, into your apartment. The two of you land on the worn carpet of your room. With cautious movements, you manage to get Superman’s limp form onto your bed. How gallant of you.

You step back, wiping the sweat from your brow, and start toward the living room couch, but abruptly, a hand shoots out from the bed and clamps gently on your wrist, making you stop. Despite still being weak, his grip is surprisingly strong. “Stay,” he murmurs hoarsely.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.”...What? Did the Kryptonite get to you or..?”

“Please,” there’s no room for you to say no. Whatever it is, he needs comfort right now, and you just happen to be in the wrong place at the right time. The tension drains from your shoulders, and you relent.

“Okay, okay. I’m staying, but I need to clean up first. ”

So you shuffle to the bathroom, washing the grime and sweat off your skin. The water feels shockingly good against your nerve endings. When you finally return, you slip under the covers beside him, where he’s already asleep. His face is less pale and sunken in, but you can see the traces of kryptonite poisoning that remain in his veins.

Your eyes finally start to flutter closed, exhaustion tugging you under like a tide. The weight of the night, the adrenaline, the fear—it all begins to fade into the background as your breath evens out, slow and steady.

Just as you surrender to sleep, a faint, unmistakable sniff.

You crack one eye open and glance sideways.

Superman’s head is tilted slightly, his nose buried against the pillow next to you. He’s... sniffing it? You blink, baffled.

First Clark, now Superman. Is there something wrong with the way you smell? A slow shake of your head betrays your disbelief as you look down at yourself. Do all men have a smelling kink? Insane. If neither of you were exhausted and practically dead, you’d probably question it more, but for now, the fatigue wins, and you fall asleep.

—

The next morning, when you wake up, the bed is empty. Good, you think, letting your muscles melt into the mattress. He’s gone; you can move on with your day and pretend the traumatic events of last night never happened.

And that’s exactly what you do. A week goes by, no Superman, no Lex jumpscares, nothing. Your life goes back to normal, except for one noticeable difference. Clark is obsessed with you.

Okay—maybe obsessed is a strong word. And if you asked Jimmy or Lois, they might shrug and say it’s not all that different than usual. But you know better, because you're obsessed with him, so you’ve gotten really, really good at reading his body language; hyper-analyzing the tiniest tilt of his head, the twitch of a smile, the angle of his hands when he types. You’ve built an entire thesis on the way he looks at people, and when you say he is staring, you mean it.

It’s gotten to the point that even Cat took notice.

“Ooh girl, he is whipped for you,” she’d whispered during a luncheon, sipping her cocktail with a smirk. “I swear to God, if he looks at you one more time like that, I’m gonna propose for him.”

You’re not sure what could have warranted this change in him, but you won’t tell him to stop. So, when you’re at your desk and he’s sitting extra close to you, you don’t complain. You’re listening to him tell you about one of his favourite punk rock bands when a bone-rattling blast shakes the building.

Smoke and debris fill the air as a hairless figure saunters his way in. Lex Luthor. Through the dust, his eyes find yours and a manic grin spreads on his face. Clark sucks in a sharp breath beside you as terror floods your features.

“Good afternoon, you Daily Planet peasants,” he calls out in a disgustingly cheerful manner. “Hope no one had lunch plans.”

He claps his hands together once, like a game show host introducing the final round. “Now, I know what you’re thinking—‘Lex, what could you possibly want with a bunch of reporters and interns and sad little copywriters?’” He clicks his tongue, then points a finger in the air, mock-epiphany lighting up his face. “Well, I’ll tell you!”

People are beginning to scream. Others rush for the elevators, but the power’s been cut—emergency lights flicker uselessly as thick gray smoke rolls through the room. I have some news for you all,” he says, eyes still staring right at you. Your stomach churns.

Please no. Please don’t.

You would consider yourself a rather fearless person, but if anyone figures out your real identity, the implications of what that means for you or the people you care about terrify you.

“One of your employees is hiding a big, big secret.” His voice pitches up like he’s teasing a child. “So big, in fact, that if it got out, I imagine it would be very upsetting for them”

“Now, I wonder... what would happen if I revealed it for them?” He stops beside one of the desks and hums thoughtfully. Then, he tosses something small and round onto it.

Clink.

Boom.

The desk explodes in a shower of wood and flame, the blast knocking over nearby chairs, and a new wave of smoke is emitted from the blast. Someone cries out. A man falls hard beside the printer station, clutching his arm.

“Oops,” the psycho gasps, blinking wide-eyed. “Butterfingers.”

He raises his voice over the screams beginning to grow. “Let’s make this simple. If she doesn’t come forward in five minutes, I’ll blow this building sky-high. With all of you inside.” Raising his wrist, he presses start on a timer.

You’re rooted to your seat, paralyzed with fear, unable to move. Suddenly, a warm, rough hand clamps around yours, pulling you up without waiting for permission. “Come with me.”

You stumble, barely steady on your feet, and let Clark drag you through the frenzy, weaving past panic-stricken coworkers, until he pushes open the door to an empty office and slams it behind you.

Each breath you take is ragged, uneven, your chest quivering. You clutch his hand like a lifeline. “Clark,” you rasp. “I need to go back out there. He’s here for me—”

“I know,” he interrupts, calmly. You shake your head, desparate.

“No, No, you don’t get it I’m—” But he puts an arm on your shoulder, silencing you.

“I need you to trust me.”

Confusion fills your mind, your face twisting. “Trust you? What—what do you mean?”

His grip tightens on your hand. “Do you trust me?”

“You–,” Your thoughts are going a thousand miles an hour. Everything is happening so fast, Lex is about to destroy the building, your identity is going to be revealed—, “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll explain later,” he says, another explosion rocking the building.“But for now, listen to me.”

You swallow hard and nod. “Good.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “I’m going to take off my glasses. You have to put them on—right away. Promise me.”

“But–”

“Promise me.” He shuts down any chance of debate, his tone final.

“I—okay, okay, I will—”

The moment he takes off his glasses, a thunderclap goes off in your mind. You can’t explain it, but something about the man in front of you changes, and you're now face-to-face with Superman. You blink—literally—and your powers stutter-react, popping you five feet away across the office. “You’re…”

Superman—Clark—takes a steady step forward, arm reaching out with his glasses on one of his palms. “You said you’d trust me,” he reminds.

Through the translucent windows, you see a burst of light. Then Lex’s voice, “Two minutes!”

This is your only chance.

Hesitantly, you grab them, then slowly lift them and slip them onto your face. Clark’s eyes flicker, and for a heartbeat, there is no recognition clouding them. He blinks, steps back as if seeing you for the first time.

“Okay,” he says at last, “Now you need to leave this room.”

Your mouth opens to speak, but for the first time in your life, you’re truly speechless. All you can do is simply nod wordlessly and step back into the main room.

Lex’s gaze sweeps the area, but when it passes over you, he doesn’t react. A triumphant smile forms as he’s convinced himself you’re too much of a coward to yourself.

“Well,” he purrs. “Let’s not waste any more time.” He lifts one hand and starts to count, drawing out each syllable.

“Ten... nine... eight…”

Just as he nears one, Superman slams into the window, barreling straight toward the bald man and knocking him clean off his feet, distracting him long enough to postpone the destruction of the building.

“Everybody out!” he booms. “Now!”

The room clears fast. You spot Jimmy and Lois as they sprint toward the doors, and Cat as she follows, heels off and barefoot. But you stay, watching as Clark and Lex duke it out, the latter being no match for the from Krypton. He’s easily overpowered and tied to a chair with a twist mess of steel piping.

You reach up and peel the glasses of your face, just as Lex’s head rolls lazily to the side and he spots you. His bloodied lip curls into a smirk the moment recognition dawns on him. “Oh,” he drawls. “Always gotta get Superman to save you, huh?”

In a blink, you’re in front of him. “I’ll kill you,” you snarl, your hand rising. But, before you can land a strike, you feel a firm grasp on your wrist. Behind you, Clark stands, restraining you softly.

“You can’t.”

Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell not?”

“You know why.” He responds.

With a bitter scoff, you rip your arm free.” If we let him go, he’s going to keep doing this. You think a prison will hold him?”

Lex leans forward in his restraints, licking blood off his teeth. “Your girl’s got a point,” he wheezes. “I won’t stop until every last metahuman is wiped off the face of the planet.”

That makes you lunge at him so fast that this time, you successfully slam your foot into his chest, sending him back into a filing cabinet, and making him grunt loudly. You’re ready to beat the living daylights out of him, when Clark intercepts you fully, body-checking you away from the human with just enough force to stop, but not enough to hurt you.

“Enough.” And that’s an order.

“You heard him!” you argue. “He’s going to kill us and everyone else!”

The man you’re talking about lets out a choked giggle from his place by the cabinet. “Oooh,” he pants. “Front row seats to a divorce.”

Before you get the opportunity to say something snarky, Clark is already moving, pivoting and driving a punch square into his opponent's jaw. He slumps, finally unconscious. Then your coworker straightens up, hand flexing, glancing back at you. “He’ll go to a black site,” he says. “He won’t ever touch anyone again.”

You don’t answer—you have nothing to say. Rather, you just wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, and vanish.

—

How the fuck are Clark and Superman the same person?!

Superman, the man who has had it out for you for the past two years, is the same cutie who brings you coffee to work? You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes like that might somehow undo what you’ve seen. Your stomach is still twisted in knots, brain pulsing with the whiplash of the last hour. You don’t know whether you want to scream or cry or throw something heavy against the wall. Preferably all three, in quick succession.

This is Clark you're talking about.

Clark, who corrects your grammar when you’re tired. Clark, who listens to your rants like it’s the highlight of his day. Clark, who says corny jokes he knows no one else finds funny but you. Clark, who is Superman.

You’re halfway through pacing a trench into your floor when there’s a knock at the door.

You don’t even bother with the peephole. You already know who it is.

“Take off the glasses,” you say flatly when Clark enters. He does. And just like before, something shifts.

God damnit. You shove him. Hard. But, like you figured would happen, he doesn’t move.

“How could you?!” you rage. “How could you put me in this position?!”

His brows pinch, his eyes flicker. “I—”

“Surely you know,” you’re laying all your cards on the table. “You have to know the way I feel about you—and the way I feel about him—is different.”

“We’re the same person,” he responds.

“Bullshit.”

Clark’s lips form into a tight line, before: “It’s the same for me! You think it’s been easy, knowing that the reason I show up to work every day is the same reason I’m going to go grey early?”

You still. “Don’t you dare—“

“You think this has been easy for me? You flirt with me as Clark but want to strangle me as Superman like you’re not driving me insane?”

“Do you even know how I felt seeing Lex threaten you in that room? I saw red,” He begins crowding in on you, voice low. “I didn’t even think it was possible for me to feel defensive over Blink, but the minute I realized it was you, it made sense.” He’s so close to you now, having you pushed up against the wall.

Your heart’s in your throat. “Yeah? Well maybe I should’ve clocked you as Supes when you started sniffing my pillow in your sleep!””

He freezes. “Excuse me?”

“Jimmy told me,” you laugh to yourself. “Said you liked the way I smelled, and I just—Gah, I didn’t know it was that serious—”

But you don’t get the rest of the sentence out, because Clark dips his head and kisses you like a dam breaking.

And It’s not sweet. It’s not soft.

It’s a disaster of teeth and breath and months of buried need clawing its way to the surface. His hands come up—one curling into your waist, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll blink away if he doesn’t hold tight enough. You gasp into his mouth and he swallows it like a dying man.

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer towards you, matching the force of his kiss with your own. He deepens it further, tongue sliding over yours with a groan that vibrates in your chest, and you whimper — actually whimper — as you wrap a leg around his thigh, and feel his hand move from your neck down to your ass, rubbing it softly before giving it a firm squeeze.

His lips move like he’s trying to memorize you, like he could spend the rest of his life tracing the shape of you with tongue and teeth. It’s dizzying. Devastating. As if you’re falling off a rooftop and being caught an inch from the pavement.

When you finally break apart, you’re gasping for air, and your hands are still curled in the cotton at his chest—without the anchor, you might actually collapse. His forehead presses to yours, and he murmurs, “Tell me to stop. That you don’t want this.”

You gulp, still panting, lips swollen and fingertips trembling where they grip the fabric of his shirt. “...I can’t. I do.”

His eyes darken instantly, and he’s on you again. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he walks you backward, blindly, lips never leaving yours—and then you blink.

The room shifts around you with a ripple, and your back hits your mattress. He lands half on top of you, blinking down in dazed surprise. Then he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh that vibrates against your ribs.

“Did you just—.”

“I did.”

“God,” he mutters, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down the line of your throat. “I felt so guilty,” he confesses between kisses. “Liking you... and yet Blink, she—“

You groan over the rest of his confession, chest stuttering in funny patterns. “I kept telling myself I was a bastard,” he says. “Like I was betraying something that wasn’t even mine to begin with. I should’ve known,” he adds, lifting his head, staring down at you. “Of course it was you. It could only be you. There’s nobody else.”

Heat travels from your chest down to your core, and your thighs clench involuntarily. “Oh, Clark,” you moan. His breath catches at the sound of his name on your lips—low, aching, wanting. You can feel him trembling slightly where his hands bracket your shoulders, like he’s barely holding himself together.

Tilting your neck up, you give him a small peck on the nose. “I admire what you stand for, Supes,” you admit, not missing the shiver that runs through his body when hearing you call him that. “The whole world does. But not when you show up in my business, trying to change me in a way I don’t need changed.”

Clark says nothing, just lets out a breath—and then he leans back slightly, eyes searching your face, before reaching for the hem of your shirt, drawing it upwards. He waits for you to nod before lifting it over your head and casting it aside. When you turn slightly, and his eyes lower to your skin, you see the moment his gaze finds the scar on your back.

“The people I’ve dealt with in the past… They’ve never given me a choice.”

You feel his hands travel up and down your sides, the warmth of his palms on your bare skin. “I don’t kill because I enjoy doing it,” you say. “I kill because sometimes one life gone is better than two. Or ten. Or a hundred.”

He kisses your collarbone, then his mouth trails lower, dragging along the curve of your neck. “I know it’s not the way you go about things,” you finish. “But I don’t have the same capabilities as you.”

Raising his head at that, Clark’s lips brush your cheeks. “I didn't like what you did because I never understood why,” he says softly. "but I never saw you as my enemy, we fight for the same good."

Your eyes roll gently, because there have definitely been times when you felt like his enemy. But when his mouth finds the tip of your ear, you bite your tongue.

Something hot and heavy takes over you, and it manifests by clawing at his still-clothed body. He pulls back just enough to strip his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. Holy shit. You knew, on some level, that he was built like a Roman statue. When you had to climb on his back, you felt it. But seeing it? An entirely different experience.

His chest rises and falls, muscles flexing with each breath, and your gaze rakes over the sculpted lines of him, down to the sharp cut of his abdomen and the softness in his eyes that shouldn’t coexist with a body like that. “That’s unfair,” you mutter, half under your breath, voice gone hoarse.

He smiles like he knows exactly what you’re talking about—and he probably does—but he doesn’t get long to enjoy the moment, because you push him back. He lands against the mattress with a soft grunt, eyes wide as you climb on top of him, straddling his waist and landing on something hard.

You lean down, one hand braced beside his head, the other skimming down the hard line of his chest, and capture his lips again, while his hands grip your hips. Shifting your weight slightly, you roll your hips forward in a slow, teasing grind.

The sound that rips from his throat is completely involuntary.

“Oh?,” you notice, pulling back an inch.

His jaw clenches, eyelids drooping down. “Don’t tease,” he warns—but his voice is wrecked and his hips are already arching up into you. You do it again, dragging your hips down harder, grinding against the hardness of him through both your clothes. He curses, head tipping back against the mattress, Adam’s apple bobbing as he groans deep in his chest.

“Gah,” he hisses. His hands are no longer just holding but moving, guiding the motion of your hips over his in rhythm with his own, the friction dizzying, maddening. You feel one inch lower, slipping below your pants, grabbing your bare ass. “You’re killing me.”

“I don’t think you’re exactly suffering,” you giggle. Clark’s grip tightens, and suddenly he sits up, chest pressed flush against yours as he kisses you hard, biting at your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp. “No,” his words dying as he reconnects your lips. “I am suffering. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You tug at the waistband of his pants. “Take these off, then.”

He obeys and god, if you weren’t drooling before then you are now. He’s scrumptious. The bed dips again as he rejoins you, his fingers trailing lightly over your skin, teasing along the waistband of your pants. Then, he slips a finger beneath the fabric and hooks it there, giving a subtle, inviting tug.

“It’s only fair,” he breathes. Using that same finger, he applies a bit more force, dragging your pants, underwear, and himself down your body all at the same time, to the edge of the bed. Then, he spreads your legs apart and pulls you closer, nestling himself perfectly between your legs. As his face dips lower, his nose brushes against your skin, and he inhales deeply, eyes shutting.

“Let me taste you,” he begs.

Except, you don’t—can’t—respond in words. Instead, your fingers thread through his dark hair, and being the smart man he is, Clark takes that as the go-ahead. He dives in, gliding his tongue up your cunt, nipping and sucking like a man eating his last meal. The slick, desperate sounds only serve to make you wetter.

“Oh, god, Clark,” you moan. His hands slide from your thighs to your stomach, splaying wide as he presses down, pinning you to the mattress. You writhe beneath him, gasping as his tongue goes even deeper, your hands tangling tighter in his hair.

“You—you taste so good,” he hums, his lips vibrating against you.

Then his nose nudges your clit, and you nearly lose it, hands flying from his head onto the ones that are splayed across your abdomen and lacing your fingers together, needing something to anchor you in place as your mind turns to mush.

The intimacy of the action has his gaze lift up to meet yours from his position, and you swear it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen in your whole existence. It’s almost too much, and soon, you start to feel a familiar tightness. Not wanting the pleasure to end, you start to unravel your fingers from his, pressing gently against his forehead.

He understands, mouth leaving your pussy with a final kiss before he drapes his body over yours, chest to chest, his weight grounding you. His cock rests heavy against your stomach, hot and throbbing. You know for a fact that had you not been so wrecked with need, you’d have taken him in your mouth. Another time.

“Can I–,” he begins to ask.

“Yes, yes please,” you babble. Then he’s reaching down between you, lining himself up. When you feel him press against you, you clutch at his biceps, holding onto something—anything—as your body adjusts around him. He’s thick, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once. You feel every inch of him, and still, somehow, want more.

His name on your lips is all it takes.

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. Then he pulls back, just enough to make you whimper at the loss, before sinking back into you with a slow, shuddering thrust. His hips meet yours with a firm slap, and he groans—loudly—head dropping to the crook of your neck.

“Ah,” he gasps. “You feel—you're so tight. So warm. I can't—”

He breaks off with a ragged moan as you clench around him, and then he’s starts back up again, steady but more desperate now, every roll of his hips deeper than the last. Each thrust drags a new sound out of him— breathless moans, half-formed words that melt into your skin.

Your head falls back against the pillow as he fucks into you, and you can barely keep your eyes open, but when you do, you catch a glimpse of him above you.

Clark’s eyes are locked on yours, heavy-lidded and wild, mouth open, panting hard. And like he can’t wait another second, he lowers his head and crushes his mouth to yours in a fierce, possessive kiss. “I’ve been dreaming about this body since the first time I saw you.” his mouth hovers over yours. “Especially in that suit.”

Then he’s moving. He slides his hands down your sides and under you, shifting your body until you’re on all fours, back arched and waiting. From behind you, he kneads your ass, spreading your cheeks apart, squeezing firmly. The rough heat of his palms sets your skin on fire. You can hear him pump himself for a moment before he leans in close, breath hot against your ear as he slides the head of his cock slowly, deliberately over your folds.

“You ready for this?” he murmurs.

You’re literally so horny you might explode. “Clark if you don’t put it in right now—”

He presses in, bottoming out in a single thrust, and you jerk forward, clutching at the bedsheets. The angle from this position makes you cry out, breath catching as a delicious ache curls tight in your belly. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room—the sharp slap of his thighs, the wet glide of his cock sliding in and out.

“You’re so perfect,” he says, and you want to keep this moment between you, to tell him how much you want him, but your brain can only rewind to when you called him—

“Supes, you’re—”

A sinful sound interrupts you. “Do not say that,” he pleads, his thrusts faltering just slightly, “or I’m going to cum right here, right now.”

You shiver at the threat, biting your lip to hold back your grin. Oh, this is going to be useful. “But you’re making me feel so good…Supes,” you add quickly at the end.

“Ah! I said don’t—oh my God,” his hips stutter and he picks up the pace. “I’m not going to last much longer. Are you close?”

“Yes,” you gasp, breath ragged, body trembling. “I… oh my God, you fill me up so well—”

He practically whimpers, “Baby I’m gonna–”

You cry out at the pet name, at the sound of his voice so wrecked and undone. His hand sneaks around you, fingers beginning to work your clit. Your whole body tenses, back arching even more as the pleasure slams into you—sudden and overwhelming and sharp around the edges. You clench around him as you come, pulsing hard, and he feels it. Moans it.

“Jesus fuck,” he chokes, and his rhythm falls apart entirely. You’re almost certain that was the first time you’ve ever heard him curse like that. He thrusts through it, chasing his own release, and when it hits him, he’s unable to stop the whine that comes out, his whole body seizing as he spills into you.

Your body collapses, boneless and trembling, onto the mattress. Every muscle sings with exhaustion and satisfaction, your skin flushed. You’re still catching your breath when you feel him drop on top of you with a heavy exhale. He stays inside you, burying his face in your hair as his chest rises and falls against your back.

“You okay?” he asks, muffled by your shoulder.

You hum something like a yes, too soft and dazed to speak. He shifts a little, propping himself on one elbow, the movement enough to make you twitch from overstimulation. But then his hand is brushing your hair away from your face, careful and tender, so he can lean in and kiss the curve of your cheek. Then the line of your jaw. The hollow beneath your ear.

He keeps going, trailing kisses over your sweat-damp skin. You turn your head to meet him, and your lips lock in a long, languid kiss. He tastes like everything you want to keep. Like warmth and strength and something that feels suspiciously close to love. And not just for Clark, but for the other guy, too. Because he’s right. They are the same person.

Only Clark would ask you if you trusted him before doing something reckless, and only Superman would do that reckless thing, sacrificing his identity to keep you safe.

“There’s nobody else, either,” you whisper.

His brow furrows, confused. “What?”

You offer him a tired little smile. “Only you could be Superman.”

----

A/N: thank you for reading! feedback is greatly appreciated :)

#superman x reader #clark kent x reader #superman smut #clark kent smut #clark kent #superman #clark kent imagine #david corenswet #superman 2025

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jeezlouiisee · 23 days ago

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Been thinking about how the new Superman movie did a really good job of giving Clark interests beyond “Truth, Justice, and a Better Tomorrow.” He likes pop punk rock. His favorite meal is breakfast for dinner. Clark does a little dance when he gets the front cover byline. He likes to doom-scroll. Unclear if he’s a dog guy. His girlfriend makes him hot cocoa when he’s sad. So often Superman in film has zero personality beyond tortured alien that must guide humanity. Giving him these small details made the character feel so much more real. He really is just a guy doing his best.

#superman #superman 2025 #superman movie #clark kent #david corenswet

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jeezlouiisee · 23 days ago

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I’m not gonna lie, he does look a little different in that glasses gif compared to the other gifs

DAVID CORENSWET Behind the scenes of Superman (2025)

#david corenswet #davidcorenswetedit #filmedit #dcedit #superman #supermanedit

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jeezlouiisee · 24 days ago

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I loved this omg

: ̗̀➛ But he doesn't like me, does he?

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ₊✩ˎˊ˗ Clark Kent x Reader

synopsis : There was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain: Clark Kent didn’t like you. Not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. But you could feel it. His body language and attitude gave everything away. Your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?

cw : smut, unprotected sex, coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, insecurities, height difference, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 12.7k

ㅤㅤ ㅤ masterlist ⋆ ao3 ⋆ more

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before.

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.”

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you.

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all.

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring.

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee.

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue.

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence.

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free.

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing…

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped.

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home. Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe.

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly.

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered.

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.

And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer.

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch.

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food.

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra.

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant.

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk.

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth.

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate.

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates.

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer.

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused.

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat.

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest.

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory.

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me."

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

��Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you. A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

©sillyswriting 2025

im so obsessed with this man i wrote this in two days...

#dc #dc comics #dcu #dc universe #superman #superman 2025 #superman movie #superman dc #clark kent #david!clark kent

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jeezlouiisee · 24 days ago

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ugh I’m so excited

I never said boyfriend. Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Season 2 Trailer

#percy jackson #pjo #pjoedit #pjotvedit #percyjacksonedit #percy jackson and the olympians #pjosource #percyjacksonandtheolympiansedit #walker scobell #not mine #leah sava jeffries #annabeth chase

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jeezlouiisee · 25 days ago

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touch tank

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here! word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry) content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending

It doesn’t start with sex.

It starts with Clark.

Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”

You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.

He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.

He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.

You’ve been friends ever since.

It’s not the cleanest origin story.

But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.

Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy).

But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”

He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.

Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.

Why, one night, it all… shifts.

You’re soaked.

Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.

Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.

The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.

So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.

Not because you’re weak. Please.

Because he lives closer.

Logistically. Geographically.

(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)

So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”

And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”

Clark blushes.

Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”

His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.

The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.

Instead, you look at him.

And he’s looking back.

Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.

You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.

Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.

It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.

But then, he exhales.

And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.

Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.

You break the kiss first, of course.

Because you always break things first.

When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.

Which is when the panic crashes in.

He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.

Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.

They always stop.

People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep.

You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.

And they get bored.

You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.

You step back like the floor might collapse under you.

Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”

Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”

The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.

You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.

“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”

“I know,” he says, without hesitation.

You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.

He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”

Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”

His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.

“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”

You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”

“Nope.”

“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”

He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”

And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.

So you do.

Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.

You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really.

But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.

His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.

And it’s terrifying.

Because it means it’s real.

It happened.

God.

It happened.

You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.

His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.

Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”

But you are. Because he is.

Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.

He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.

His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.

Lord have mercy.

You ride him like your life depends on it.

You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.

Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.

“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.

And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.

No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.

You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative.

“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.

So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—

He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:

“Do you want me to close my eyes?”

You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.

And you say no.

"No."

Never.

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.

You come so hard you forgot your name.

Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about the depth of your feelings for him.

It was insane. Deranged.

(Perfect.)

Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.

And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.

You collapse over him afterward, a mess of limbs and sweat and disbelief, heart hammering against his chest like it’s trying to hide inside him.

And he wraps himself around you like he wants that. Like he’d let it. Like he’s been waiting to make room for you in all his softest places.

Then he hums.

You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.

But you listen.

“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.

Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”

You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”

“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”

You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.

And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone in the shower.

Truly.

You're just trying to get clean.

Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle.

And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.

He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”

And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.

Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.

He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”

Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?

But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.

You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”

“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.

He moves inside you slow.

Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.

Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.

(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)

"Clark. Clar—fuck, baby, I'm almost—Jesus Christ—oH!"

When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.

He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.

But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.

So, you just let him wash your back.

He didn’t ask you to stay.

You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.

But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again.

Making pancakes.

“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.

And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."

Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:

“Also, we need to talk.”

Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.

You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”

He looks amused. “Only eight?”

“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”

Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”

You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”

“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”

You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”

“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”

You glance down. You are. Damn it.

He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.

You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”

He raises his brows. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”

Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”

“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”

He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.

You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”

Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”

“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”

“Exactly. Wait—"

He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.

You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”

“You’re really against foot rubs?”

“I just think they set a tone.”

Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”

You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."

“Noted.”

You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”

He looks up.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.

You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."

Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.

“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”

You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”

Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”

“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”

“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”

Clark leans forward slightly.

The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”

And that—

God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.

You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“Well, stop.”

He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.

“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.

He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.

And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.

It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.

Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.

Which is so fucked. You are not precious.

You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.

He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”

And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”

Which is—god, so not fair.

Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.

You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.

And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.

“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.

Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”

“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”

You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”

You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”

“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”

“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”

“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”

You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”

Clark goes still.

Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin.

This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.

He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.

Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.

This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.

Still, he doesn’t move.

And that’s what sets you off.

You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”

He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.

“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”

“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”

You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”

He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”

You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”

His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”

Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.

You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”

He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”

“Watch me.”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”

Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.

“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”

You blink. “And how is that?”

Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”

You hate him for that. A little.

But you kiss him anyway.

Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.

And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.

“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”

“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”

And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—

He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.

You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.

He smiles.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”

Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.

That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.

He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.

You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”

He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

Then it happens again.

This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.

Your phone rings.

Clark.

You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”

There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”

You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.

He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.

But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.

“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”

By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.

It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.

That’s all.

But still, there’s this night.

You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.

You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.

He doesn’t show.

No call. No text.

You sit through the entire movie. Alone.

And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.

Then you flip your phone over, face-down.

And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.

You’ve done it to people before.

You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.

Not from him.

Not from Clark.

Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.

You’re just a little annoyed.

And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.

And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.

Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”

Then: a video clip.

No sound. Just shaky phone footage.

A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.

You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.

BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.

You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.

Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.

The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.

Hey. You free tonight?

You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.

Then:

yeah. yours?

A pause.

If you want.

God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.

Still, you go.

It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.

Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.

“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.

He shrugs. “Felt like it.”

There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.

You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor

But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.

So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.

Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.

And then Clark pulls back.

Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.

But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up.

He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.

He just… stares at you.

And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.

You blink at him. “I—what?”

He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.

“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.

And that—that is when your stomach drops.

Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.

You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”

Clark pauses. He blinks at you.

“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”

His face twists. “What?”

“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”

Clark tries again. “I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”

“I didn’t—”

“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”

Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.

“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”

“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.

“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”

Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”

You stare at him, lips parted.

He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.

“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”

You freeze.

Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.

That sounds like confession.

“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”

“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.

“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”

His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.

And for the first time, you see it.

The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.

Like he’s not scared of you. He’s scared for you.

But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.

You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.

Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.

Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there.

Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.

You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.

You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.

Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.

The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.

And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.

Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.

“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”

“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”

“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”

It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.

You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door.

You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.

“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”

And then you leave.

You are, in every measurable way, unwell.

You don’t call it a breakup.

That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.

So, no. Not a breakup.

Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.

You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”

You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.

She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”

You blink. “Sorry, what?”

“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”

You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)

You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”

You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.

Or the banana bread.

Because there is banana bread.

It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.

You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.

Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.

He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.

You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.

You don’t answer.

He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.

He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.

(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)

You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.

And then tomorrow happens.

And then the next day.

And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.

Kind of.

You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:

Hotdog.

Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.

You stare off into the distance.

Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.

You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.

“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.

You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”

“I—”

“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”

He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”

You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.

Goddammit. He looks like home.

You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.

“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.

He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”

“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”

“I know.”

“And you took that as a challenge?”

Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.

“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”

“That’s not what I want.”

You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”

He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.

One arm wraps around your waist.

And then—

You are no longer on the ground.

You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”

“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.

“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”

“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”

“SUPERMAN?!”

“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.

“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”

Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.

You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.

“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.

“I know!”

“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”

“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”

“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”

The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.

“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.

“I did!”

“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”

“I showed up at your apartment!”

“With a cape, Kent?!”

“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”

You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”

“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”

“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”

“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”

You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.

“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”

“It’s real,” he says.

“Like, capital-R Real.”

“Yeah.”

You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”

And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.

So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”

Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”

His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.

“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”

His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.

“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”

He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”

You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.

And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”

He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in.

Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.

He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.

You lean back a little to look at him.

And then, honestly, you just kiss him.

Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway.

The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys.

The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there.

The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.

The banana bread.

“I love you too, you idiot.”

His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.

“You do?”

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”

And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.

You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.

Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.

Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”

You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.

It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong.

You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.

But this is different.

This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.

“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”

“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”

He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind.

You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.

He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it.

"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.

His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts.

Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.

You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.

“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."

Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”

He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.

“I love you.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.

You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now.

But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”

He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.

“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”

You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”

He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.

“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”

“Stop—”

“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”

You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.

And you kiss him.

Hard.

Hungry.

Grateful.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you absolute fucking idiot.”

Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.

You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.

The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.

You’re about halfway to Smallville.

“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”

Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."

You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”

“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”

You stare at him.

He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”

You snort. “That’s very comforting.”

He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”

You blink at him.

“…The guest room?”

A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”

You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”

“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”

“We are dating.”

“I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”

“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.

You do.

God, you do. You love him.

It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.

And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.

Officially.

Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.

No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.

Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Which should terrify you.

(And maybe it does, a little.)

But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.

Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.

“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.

You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.

“Me too, Michigan.”

His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”

“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."

You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”

Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”

He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.

You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.

“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”

“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.

“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”

You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."

You smile.

Because yeah. You do know.

#clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent smut #clark x reader #superman x reader #i loved every second of it

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jeezlouiisee · 27 days ago

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#this is so fucking funny #twitter #superman #clark kent #not mine

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jeezlouiisee · 27 days ago

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This was so good I want a part 2 pls

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭

You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms.

You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him.

For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short.

Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining.

You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach.

You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.”

You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out.

Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant.

“Here, sweetheart,” he says.

You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.”

“Can I make it for you?” he asks.

Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.”

Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building.

You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Are you sharing?”

“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers.

“Thank you.”

Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.”

“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.

He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.”

“That explains why it’s still warm.”

He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute.

“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips.

You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”

“Do you have big dinner plans?”

“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.”

“Why not?”

You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.”

“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says.

“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.”

He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says.

It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it.

“I’ll bring you some if it does.”

“I’d like that.”

You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning.

“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?”

“I can be punctual,” he promises.

“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”

“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”

You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force.

“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you).

Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?”

Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet.

Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days.

When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes.

They’re cuter than denim shorts, though. Velveteen paisley overlaying plain panties.

It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else.

And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath.

You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed.

—

The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer.

“That smells amazing.”

You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?”

“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.”

His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised.

The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks.

“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask.

“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.”

“I haven’t done anything?” you ask.

He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.”

If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell.

His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks.

You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath.

Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place.

“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says.

You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say.

“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.”

You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile.

“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave.

You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision.

“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly.

There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment.

“It’s a little brave,” you say.

“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.”

You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you.

—

Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control.

You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure.

“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says.

“I’m not worried about the sun.”

“What are you worried about?”

“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon.

He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.”

You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm.

So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that.

“Do you worry about that a lot?”

“Hm?”

“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?”

“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask.

He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”

You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”

Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.”

“Or what?”

“Or nothing. Just knock it off.”

He makes everything sound so satiny.

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds.

“Promise?”

Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.”

You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart.

A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him.

It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism.

Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.”

“And?”

“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says.

He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth.

“What’s amazing?”

You remember where you are urgently.

“I made macarons,” Jimmy says.

Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?”

You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee.

“Morning,” Clark says.

“Hi. Good morning.”

“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?”

You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.”

“You look good.”

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.”

“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite.

Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose.

“You do look good,” he says again.

You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.”

You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice.

“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.

“What?”

His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself.

“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”

“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.”

His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue.

Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.

“Don’t.”

“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”

“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?”

“Take me somewhere else.”

His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator.

He hits the button for the basement as you step in.

“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”

No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop.

“Clark!” you say.

“Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth.

You raise your hand to wipe it away.

“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly.

Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be.

Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back.

“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung.

“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.”

“Really?”

“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?”

“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh.

His eyebrows pinch. “What?”

“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.”

“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.”

His neck goes all shades of rose.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?”

You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble.

He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit.

“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.”

The elevator chugs back to life.

—

You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar.

“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?”

You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out.

“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.”

You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily.

“You’re okay,” Superman assures you.

His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger.

“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion.

“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.”

“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.”

You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”

“Everyone’s safe.”

You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.”

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak.

“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.”

Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly.

You shake your head, not without fondness.

All boys are the same.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times

#clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x y/n #clark kent #clark kent fic

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